


Miss Me?

by theroomstops



Series: Moments [6]
Category: Bodyguard (TV 2018)
Genre: F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 12:45:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18591529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theroomstops/pseuds/theroomstops
Summary: “It’s not too late. You’re here, with me.”“Am I?”He jolted awake, drenched in sweat and tears. The pillow was cold at his touch and he turned at the sound of a branch hitting his window repeatedly. Fucking new house with the fucking new tree. Fucking bed with cold pillows at his side where no one slept. And fucking Julia, who always invaded his dreams and never left him the hell alone. Thankfully. He couldn’t bear it any other way.David's life after Julia. It's several months later, and he's moved house, but not moved on.





	Miss Me?

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't hate me. I'm so grateful for all the comments on this series, you've been so supporting and so encouraging. So just, please don't hate me.

“Miss me?”

He’s barely turned on the lights when he hears it. _Her_ voice. The same voice he was trying to forget. But there she was, Julia Montague, sat in the lounge chair in a corner, by the window. _His_ Julia. His _Julia_. She looked the same. The same perfectly done hair, longer than when he last saw her, but with the same bouncy curls surrounding her impeccable face. Slim fingers silently _tap tap_ tapping on the arm of the chair like she was late for something, or just rudely impatient. 

“How...” He looked around the living room as if to look for clues.

“You’ve moved since I saw you last. How’s therapy?” Her lips curled into a smile, this one a far more innocent one than the ones he usually flashed back to. His jaw clenched, still unsure how the fuck she was right in front of him.

“Keeping tabs on me?” David folded his arms and straightened his posture. He’d missed this, the back and forth between them. He was aware he was regarded as a man of not so many words, but he’d liked talking to her.

“Of course.” He watched as she pursed her lip, the way she always did when she was preparing her next move. Getting ready to slay another beast. She was always so sure of herself, never one to reveal a weakness, and even now her eyes shone with confidence. It was… familiar. It felt nice to see it in front of him again. “Tell her about me yet?”

“And what should I tell her, Julia?” He walked towards the chair as he spoke, hands resting on the edge of the arms as he leaned over her. She stared him down, seemingly daring him to close the small gap between them. “Dear therapist, I fucked the Home Secretary, and it almost got me blown up.”

“Did it? Sleeping with me was the only reason you were strapped to a bomb, was it?” Each of her words were pointed, her eyes laser focused on his. They moved quickly down to his lips, then back to look him in the eyes again.

“Part of it.” David stepped back again, Julia remaining seated as she had been while he paced the floor. His usual stoic demeanor crumbling as he rambled, occasionally looking over at her, still seated in the chair and looking at him intensely. “Luke Aikens knew. He knew about us, he had to have known. That’s how Craddock knew we’d been sleeping together, because he told her. I was an easy target after 1st of October, with my history, and Craddock knew that. He had people everywhere, more than they’ve found, I’ve tried to tell them that, but I don’t think they believe me. Some really high up if he managed to bug your room. When he heard whatever he heard...”

“Why would Luke Aikens care about what we did, David?” She sighed as she leaned back, her right leg crossing over the left slowly as she looked him with the same kind of calm stoicism he’d given her. Sort of unnerving to be looked at that way, he realized that now.

“He... If the bomb at St Matthews failed, he planned to use the tapes of us to ruin your career instead. They were probably damning. A Home Secretary sleeping with her own PPO, we talked about the risk...”

“Right. And what would they have heard, those sneaky perverts listening to our private moments?” David watched as her eyes narrowed, her legs uncrossing. She almost floated as she moved towards him, finally closing the gap between them. He closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, she was still there. Her nose only inches away from his, and she sighed as she cocked her head to the side and continued. “What did they _hear_ , David? Did they hear you get yours and leave as you should have?”

“No.”

“No. But you could have though, couldn’t you? I even asked you to leave if you so wanted, but you didn’t. Instead you pledged your loyalty and fucked me on the sofa, didn’t you?” Her voice was soft, husky, and his eyes would dart to her lips as she spoke. That carefully applied, immaculate lipstick not ever looking imperfect as her lips moved with the words. He was drawn to them, unable to stop his desire to kiss them again until he felt her index finger against his cheek, trailing down to his jaw. “A very bad soldier, but a very good—“

“I know I should have left,” He whispered. “but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to leave you.”

“Craddock and Sampson. They wanted your complicity to take me down too. All those people who wanted me gone. I never stood a chance, did I?” Her voice had a sort of chilling melancholy to it, her fingernail scraping against his jaw. His glassy eyes shut for a moment, and when he opened them again, she was back in the chair and sitting down again, her composure shifting immediately, right back to the epitome of strength. Moments of vulnerability before the pulled herself together, back to the picture of feminine strength, that was the Julia he’d gotten to know. Her voice was soft when she looked up at him. “Did you believe in me?”

“Aye. Even when I probably shouldn’t have.” He smiled for a second, the first time in forever, it felt like. And as he did, he watched as her face changed. She bit into her lip, head cocked to the side again as her eyes met his once more.

“Tell me, what would they have heard, David? What would your wife have heard if someone had sent them to her?”

“This isn’t fair, Julia. You’re supposed to be...” 

“What,” She shifted in the chair, slighty moving forward, hands holding onto the armrests. “- would they have heard, David?”

“That I liked it. I liked you.”

“Yes, you never left me wondering about that.” As if she knew what he was about to do, she sat up as he leapt forward to his knees in front of her, meeting his move with her own. A small smile on her lips as he stared at her mouth before raising his eyes to look at her.

“I miss you. I miss that room, being there with you. I miss us. I miss sleeping next to you and listening to you breathe. Sometimes I’d just look at you while you slept. I could have destroyed you if I wanted, I was that close to you. I could have done what Andy wanted me to do, and instead I’d just…” A warm hand rested against her cheek as she leaned into it with a smile. His fingers play with hers, and soft tones turned harsher when he looked up at her again. “Julia, all those conversations with the security chief, if the PM knew you wanted to take him down... Why did you get involved with Stephen Hunter-Dunn? Why didn’t you just ask for help?”

“You know why I did it, David.” Her face turned away from his hand. 

“A girl was raped.”

“Yes.” Her head shook just barely as she sat back. “And the country was in danger. You saw what the file said. Alcohol abuse. Cocaine. A rape allegation buried. Someone _had_ to stop him.” 

“Why didn’t you ask me to help you?” It’s an honest question. He’s asked himself that same question many times since her death. She looked away from him, eyes quickly focusing on the bookshelf in the corner.

“Could you have? I didn’t have anyone, David. I didn’t trust Stephen, but I didn’t trust the others either.” His eyes meet hers as she finally looks at him again. “And I couldn’t tell you.”

“I would have done anything you asked of me. I wanted to save you.” His hand shakes a bit as he finds the courage to touch her. Carefully pushing a piece of hair off her face as his voice drops to a whisper. “You always looked like you were alone in the world.”

“Well, I was, wasn’t I?” She looked… almost small, the way her body curls into the chair, his hands side by side with hers. 

“No. Not by then. You had me. I would have done anything for you. Will do anything for you.”

“Isn’t that always the way? We figure out what we want and then it’s too late.” She sighed.

“It’s not too late. You’re here, with me.”

“Am I?” 

He jolted awake, drenched in sweat and tears. The pillow was cold at his touch and he turned at the sound of a branch hitting his window repeatedly. Fucking new house with the fucking new tree. Fucking bed with cold pillows at his side where no one slept. And fucking Julia, who always invaded his dreams and never left him the hell alone. _Thankfully._ He couldn’t bear it any other way.

He always imagined her the same way. Her hair grown, a slightly different look, but still the same Julia. As if she was still alive and living on somewhere else - physically haunting him, instead of just coming to him like this, in dreams and fantasies. The concept remained the same, just different versions of the same thing every night. Her returning to him. She was never dead in his dreams. Every time was as if it was his first time seeing her, and every time it would play out a little differently, but still end the same way. With her vanishing, and him waking up. Sometimes she’d be in danger, sometimes they’d just sit quietly on the sofa and talk. Sometimes she’d appear in his bed, naked and beckoning him close, and he’d take his time treasuring her body the way he should have done every time they were together. And every time he’d wake up drenched in sweat, feeling sad and lonely, or painfully turned on. 

He’d long ago lost his appetite for anything, settled for a desk job without much protest, and he’d happily allowed another man to spend time with his children. Currently all that he welcomed into his body were thoughts of her. He often pictured what it would have been like to have normalcy with her, if they could have survived it. He even liked imagining their fights sometimes. Fighting with her had been one of the most painful and easiest things he’d ever done. She had owned her part in his pain, but challenged his perspective. Made him think and made him go crazy at the same time. He missed that about her. How she set off all the untapped emotions in him. Feelings everyone else had been too scared to look at, but Julia had jumped right in and poked the bear. They’d only had the one argument in their time together, not been given enough time to have another, but he wanted more. He assumed it would start over something stupid silly or gravely serious. Either or. Exactly as their relationship had been from start to finish. At turns volatile and tender, truly intimate, and intensely passionate, sexually and verbally, to the point that it could quickly drive him to the edge, in any meaning of the word. 

He constantly wondered if the person he’d gotten to know, the woman he unbeknownst to everyone else mourned intensely, was the real Julia, or if he’d been set up again. And then the anger would overwhelm him. His deep frustration with secrecy and lies only fueled by uncertainty and sorrow that he would never know for sure. And then he would remember her soft-spoken “I won’t lie to you again” and her open, trusting face as she’d shared everything she knew about the school attack only minutes before the bombing. So many complicated feelings were attached to his memory of her, all jumbled up and ready to be processed. Part of him really didn’t want to. It worried that if he dealt with them, she’d disappear and be gone forever. She wouldn’t need to be around any longer, his subconscious wouldn’t need her. Another part of him longed to tell someone about her so that it was no longer a secret. Wanted to tell someone about how being with her had been like finally breathing again. That he had finally felt accepted and wanted just as he was, every damaged part of him. Maybe he would even tell them about how they’d giggled and shared intimate stories, even though no one else probably imagined the late Home Secretary that way.

He knew deep down that all of his thoughts of her were about dealing with trauma. His own feelings of guilt and of loss forced to the forefront by a talented therapist. Therapy had taught him that much. He knew that he wasn’t actually speaking to her, not even as a way of dealing with his guilt, but to himself. His subconscious. But he didn’t much care. Not when it meant he could still see her face as he slept. Sometimes he imagined her other places too. He’d see her in the kitchen, grabbing wine from the fridge. The shower, biting her lips as her naked chest rose and fell as she watched him wash in the morning. Sometimes he’d see her in the streets, behind strangers and around corners as he grabbed his usual coffee from his favorite cafe. But when he’d close his eyes and look again, it was never her.

The branch hit the window again and he scoffed. Fucking tree, waking him from a perfectly necessary dream. If he can’t even have her there, where can he?

 

David got out of bed, his stomach growling as he quickly prepared some dry toast and a cup of tea. One of those dumb nighttime ones his friend Louise had insisted he buy when he’d been stupid enough to mention that he didn’t sleep well. Being further away from the city was nice though. The air was fresher there, the kids loved the garden, and it was better to look at beautiful trees rustling in the wind, than listen to his old neighbors fighting yet again. But he still didn’t sleep well. Not since her death. He bit into the toast, as he heard a flurry of sounds from outside. His finely tuned instincts told him he probably heard a car coming to a halt somewhere, and an unrecognizable noise from the walkway. He saw no animals or people running around in the dark. Bloody new postman probably threw the paper open again. He opened the door with a jolt, running to save it from the wind. At least reading would be a distraction of sorts. He doesn’t find it, and when he turns around, he’s dreaming again. He sees her long hair, though not the perfect, bouncy curls as he always saw her. No perfect lipstick on her lips, no power suit on. He had never seen her wear sweats before, even when she would change after a long day, it was into something expensive that reeked of upper class. She looked tired. Beautiful but absolutely exhausted. He wasn’t used to reading exhaustion so clearly in her face, she’d always try to hide it from everyone, even though he could always tell. This wasn’t like his dreams. In his fantasies, she always remained the Julia he’d known. Only the length of her hair changed. She stepped forward, and his breath caught as he saw her face more clearly, she was covered in marks. Cuts, some barely healed bruises. Her hand reached out to touch him, and it was so real, so warm and loving against his cold skin.

“No...” He staggered backwards, stuttering a bit as he saw her face fall a bit. 

“David—“ He rushed past whatever it is as the warmth of the inside embraces him again. _What the fuck?_

“No, you’re dead. You are dead, and I know you’re dead, because I watched them tell your mother. So I know you’re dead.” He paced the floors as he heard the front door shut behind him. He must have thrown it shut behind him as he rushed back inside, because she wasn’t there. She was _not_ walking out of the darkness of his hallway, looking at him softly as her shadowy figured walked towards him, stopping just before she reached the living room. 

“Please---“

“I’m losing it. That fucking shrink isn’t worth a damn. I’m losing my mind because you’re dead.” Because she wasn’t there, she absolutely could not be there. Julia Montague had died. He had watched from a distance as a small group of doctors told her mother and her ex-husband. He’d gotten drunk the day of her funeral. He had mourned, for months. He had nearly died seeking justice for her unjustly death, and none of the many times he had begged for her in that time, cried out her name in his sleep had she ever returned.

“Am I?” 

He sinks into the armchair she’d sat in when... Fuck, he didn’t even know if it was a dream and a hallucination, because how the hell do you know the difference? She, the figure, hallucination, whatever _she_ was, turned on the living room light and walked into the living room. He shook his head desperately as she stepped closer. Did ghosts walk and turn on lights now? Whenever he told his kids ghost stories, they’d sort of float from room to room. Maybe they really walked. Usually when he’d see her, she’d stay in the same place, sometimes magically moving to appear in front of him. But never did she walk across his living room floors. Never did he hear the sounds of her shoes hitting the wooden floors. Until now. 

“David, there’s so much I have to tell you. I heard what Luke Aikens did, I’m so---.”

“You _died_.” 

The stillness of shock shifted into fits of sobs as he fell to the floor, just as he had months ago in a hotel suite. The figure, all woman, every bit the woman he remembered despite what she looked like on the outside, kneeled down next to him as he looked up at her. His lips quivered as he spoke, her hand lovingly on his head as she sat down on shaking legs in front of him. “I thought you died.”

 

Outside, in the darkness of night, a lone postman walked up and down the street. He tossed the newspaper over the little fence to the new family he knew had just moved in. Two adorable kids, and he kept expecting a dog to jump at him eventually. Adorable kids always managed to convince dads to get a cute, uncontrollable dog. The paper landed on the front step, and in the dim light, by a small insert picture of Julia Elizabeth Montague, 41, the front page read: 

“ALIVE! MONTAGUE HELD CAPTIVE BY CRIME BOSS!”

For the many that sat down in shock on that Friday morning, they would read the front cover story of a crime syndicate and its octopus-like grip on the government. Its arms reaching to dark corners the public never even knew existed. They would be reminded of the sight of David Budd walking the streets with a pretty blonde as he sought justice for a dead woman. Some would read on to learn the true depths of the conspiracy, of David Budd’s role in unraveling the threads that snared it, and learn of the unbelievable story of how a dead woman was found in a tunnel amongst decades long cartel secrets. Drugs, money, illegal weapons, and a former Home Secretary. Beaten and bruised, but alive.

Inside, David Budd sobbed in the arms of his lover. Slowly accepting that the way her hands touched his face was real. Believing more with each press of her lips to his skin, that they weren’t imaginary or another cruel dream to be snatched away from him as he woke. Carefully looking up to find that her eyes sparkled back at him, the way they had many times before, but never did in the same way when he’d imagine her there. And then loudly, with months of grief and exhaustion in his arsenal, he cried out as his love whispered, _I’m real_ , until he was fully ready to believe in it.

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! Or not. We all know she ain't dead. Yeah, I'm not Jed Mercurio, people. I said this would follow the show as I see it, and it sure does at that. I hope you enjoyed David's thoughts, and the reunion.
> 
> Notes: I wanted it to be clear looking back that David was dreaming. Julia doesn't walk, she barely moves at all except in the chair. I wanted it be a little unclear if she was a ghost or if he was crazy. So I hope that wasn't too weird reading it. I'm not a writer, just a fangirl, so... She exists in his head because he needs her, because he can't move on yet. He's still trying to figure everything out because he felt there was more to the story than what we saw wrap up in the final episode. That's my opinion rearing its head, _I_ consider the conspiracy unfinished. _I_ think there are unanswered questions and still threads to be pulled. I used that thought-process for this. David felt there was more to it, and he was right, but because of everything that did happen to him, he was not allowed to be a part of the process.
> 
> And yes "Am I?" was absolutely inspired by the Red Nose Day thing. It's actually how I got the idea for this in the first place.
> 
> Hope it didn't suck, thank you again for reading this series. And thanks as always to Ally and Victoria for listening to my ramblings, for even reading this shit before it looks like anything at all.


End file.
